Pocketful of Sunshine
by Amber Penglass
Summary: Donna requests a modification to her wedding dress, though she's not quite sure why.


**Pocketful of Sunshine**

_Amber Penglass_

Written on a lunch break, in response to a screenshot of a tumblr meme putting forth this very idea (which I cannot seem to find again). The idea gripped me hard enough that I find my first Who!fic depicting my second least favorite of the New!Who companions.

The song being referenced is by Natasha Beddingfield.

She had that song stuck in her head again. Of all the things she needed today (her maid of honor to show up, her mother to shut her trap, a stiff drink), a bloody peppy pop song bouncing around the inside of her skull was dead last.

"Here we are!" Scratch that, the bleach-blonde bimbo beaming at her over the armful of satin and tulle was dead last. Songs about sunshine could never be _dead _last with _that _around.

The bridal consultant hung Donna's wedding dress on the back of the dressing room door, and left again, chirping, "Be back with the shoes!"

"And that suck-it-in bra!" Her mother called after, then muttered. "God knows you need it." She took a long drink from her champagne flute. It was plastic- the salon wasn't quite nice enough for crystal.

"I'm here!" The arrival of Maureen, Donna's soon to be sister in law, prevented her from snapping at her mother. She came right over and plopped down on the overstuffed couch, dropping her bags at her feet. She spotted the dress, and gushed, "Is that it? It's gorgeous!"

"Better be, for what I paid for it." Donna's mother refilled her glass. The bride herself grit her teeth and glanced upward, exhaling slowly. Technically, her mother had been the one to pay for it, in the sense she had handed the clerk the credit card. But the money had come from her grandfather, who'd waved away her angry protests when she'd found out. It wasn't a cheap dress, and he was a pensioner.

"Just money sitting in an old account, never used for anything," he'd said. "Not even mine, truth be told, told a mate my darling girl was getting married, and he insisted."

No amount of badgering on her part had moved the man to reveal his mysterious benefactor. Eventually he'd just distracted her with pulling her out to their normal stargazing spot, asking if she thought her fiancé would like to join them sometime. The gesture of acceptance of had delighted her enough that she'd forgotten about rich old friends who had nothing better to do with their money than buy wedding dresses for women who didn't know him from beans.

"Oh yay, we're all here!" The consultant was back. She was followed by a bent over crone with pins stuffed in her mouth, a measuring tape looped over her neck, and bifocals perched on the end of a hatchet nose. The 'fitting specialist.' She looked like she'd taught the Spanish Inquisition a trick or two.

Donna snatched the flute from her mother's hand and downed it. Maureen stifled a laugh behind a manicured hand. Donna thought she should get a manicure. She was the bride, why didn't she have a manicure?

While Maureen and her mother nattered at each other about _her_ wedding (though they seemed to think it theirs), Donna ducked into the dressing room to shuck jeans, blouse, boots and jacket, telling herself she wouldn't be this chilly next time she put this dress on, since it was scheduled to be a spring wedding. The thought of spring and sunshine made her think of that stupid song still stuck in her head.

She deigned to allow the consultant to strap her into the 'suck-it-in' bra, a contraption that was more corset than brassiere, help her step into the petticoat, shoes (getting them on _after _dress was unthinkable), and then at last lift the fluffy concoction of tulle, satin, and crystals over her head.

A few moments of the consultants fingers lacing, zipping, snapping, fluffing and tucking everything into place, and she swung the door to the dressing room wide open with a declaration of 'ta-da!'

"Oh, Donna!" Maureen clapped a hand over her mouth. Donna saw her mother blink rapidly.

"Very nice," was all she said. Donna smiled at her, and the woman smiled back.

"Up," the seamstress said loudly, interrupting the quasi bonding moment. Donna mounted the stool flanked by tall, wide mirrors, and felt her stomach flutter. This was it. The same thrill she'd felt first putting on this dress months ago, only then it had just been the store's floor model. This one was the one she'd ordered, and it fit much better, though the hem needed help, the bust needed letting out, and the waist nipped in a tad...

The seamstress got to work. Donna ceased to be a person, and became just a living mannequin. Or perhaps the core of a sculpture of fabric- the woman was an artist, her pins and needles and thread serving as brushes. Even her mother looked impressed at the speed with which Donna found herself looking at a mock-up of what it would all look like when finished, barring the yellow-headed pins.

"That song, what is it? It's a nursery rhyme, isn't it? Why are you humming a nursery rhyme?" The demanding inquiry interrupted the admiration Donna had been enjoying, and she scowled at her mother's suspicious reflection. She hadn't even realized she'd been humming.

Maureen laughed. "No, no, it's a pop song! She's just humming it slow. _I've got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine__!_" She sang the line that had been bouncing around the inside of Donna's head like an overactive ferret.

"Been stuck in my head all day," Donna explained.

"My mum used to say songs getting stuck in your head were your subconscious's way of trying to tell you something," the consultant piped up. "Usually an answer to a question." She was returning with an armful of accessories- purses, wraps, flats to change into after the ceremony. She held out a sparkling silver clutch. "Have you thought about where you're going to keep your things during the day? The things you need handy, like your mobile?"

Donna smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, looking at herself in the mirror. She felt a tickle at the back of her memory.

_I've got a pocket, a pocketful of sunshine..._

"Miss?" Donna directed her voice at the seamstress.

"Mrs. Scavowitz," came the pin-muffled correction.

"Mrs. Scavowitz," Donna repeated politely. "Could you add pockets to the dress? I think they might come in handy."

~Fin~


End file.
